


For Want of a Mirror

by Artemis-M (dicyfer)



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: 2nd person POV (Cecil), Angst, Cassette-related but not inspired, Cecil is in love, Conversations, Gen, Interning, M/M, Remorse, Tattoos, The Voice of Night Vale, and it's origins, neck tattoo, nothing is explained, sketch of a scene, tattoo headcanon, unnamed traumatic past event
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 21:24:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dicyfer/pseuds/Artemis-M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone wants to know what the tattoos mean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Want of a Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> This was written (long) before "Cassette," however it can certainly be read as if in reference to it. Honestly that episode is the only reason I'm posting this, as it leaves a little more material for the reader to work with in terms of everything that isn't mentioned.

“Cecil,” Carlos says with the air of a question, and you feel that familiar but never diminishing pang of happiness, an acute, almost painful jab in your heart.

“Yes?” You reply and remind yourself to lower your pitch. Carlos always pitches your voice up and it’s one of the only symptoms of your affliction (for that is love, no?) that you truly dislike and attempt to master.

“I’ve been meaning to ask--and I completely understand if you don’t want to talk about it, but can you explain your tattoos? I mean--if there’s a story behind them. They’re interesting.”

You smile and smile and god wait he just asked a question the tattoos, yes. “Ah.” You glance down at your own arms and the intricate ink sleeves that stretch out to your hands. “I’m afraid they simply appeared one day. Or rather, I only remember the pungent scent of singed flesh and an unholy screaming that may or may not have been from me.  I was interning at the station.”

Carlos looks bemused, a frequent expression, you’ve noticed. But recently you fancy that you can detect a little more understanding in his dark eyes. Night Vale has truly embraced its newest resident, though that resident is certainly taking his time in realizing it.

“How old were you when you were interning?”

“Oh, you know. About the same age as all the interns. That is, young enough to still find comfort in the illusion of a future and old enough to begin questioning one’s own existence in the face of the void.”

Carlos raises an eyebrow and it’s _adorable_.

“Okay. So, anyways, they --“ he gestures at your arms, “--just appeared. When you were… younger. Does that include that one?” This time he points to your neck, and shockingly you feel your muscles tense in defense. It’s been so long. How can it still affect you like that? From Carlos, even.

You raise a hand almost unwillingly to your neck and cover the vibrant tattoo that paints your throat. “Ah, well, truly you are a scientist, my beautiful Carlos. Your powers in discerning observation are commendable. This one is indeed ‘not like the others.’  That is, it did not simply appear without my previous consent.”

You stop because you don’t know how to go on. Old fears are resurfacing and you are confused at your own reaction. You wonder if perfect Carlos has a power you never noticed before, to stab right through a memory and into the emotions that surround it.

Carlos is meanwhile looking at you strangely. He has detected your own distress, you think, and you hate yourself for it because suddenly he looks concerned, for _you_ , and beautiful Carlos should never feel bad on your account.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it,” he says reassuringly, his tone a golden shiver that nearly makes you forget yourself, until you remember your hand at your own throat, and the blue tinged ink just beneath the skin.

“No, dear Carlos, it is a story that all Night Vale residents know, and you belong to Night Vale now. You should know.

“This--“ you point to the image,”--is the Voice of Night Vale.”

Again, you find yourself at a loss for words. Carlos has that affect on you, but this time it’s also something more. It is difficult to find a starting point in a narrative that is essentially your entire life.

_Late on one typical Night Valean day, around [REDACTED] years ago, a young woman went into labour with delicate screams of agony. I am told there was joy involved at some point as well._

That might be the wrong place to start. It is a story so difficult because the first parts involve such immense joy, and you find you can’t bear describing who you were before… what happened.

“Cecil?” Carlos asks gently, and you realize you’ve been silent for a long time. Carlos puts a hand over yours and you feel the warmth of his pulse beat back some of the blackness that had flooded into you.

“You’re going to say,” you begin, “that I don’t need to tell this story if I don’t want to. But I do want to. It will just be difficult. I must ask you, dear Carlos, to bear with me…”


End file.
